


The Cave

by closetcellist



Series: Titan Arum [4]
Category: Battle for London in the Air
Genre: Boxing, Gen, some light murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closetcellist/pseuds/closetcellist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Jhandir and Andrew head to Manhattan-in-the-Air to establish a new life after the breakdown in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Will Hold on Hope

Airships traveled quickly, but this was swiftly becoming the longest few days of Andrew’s life. They left London-in-the-Air after sundown, the ship silent as it moved, taking refuge in the dark of the night. Captain French was a veteran at this, and the first few hours passed in relative peace, even in the cramped space. But as Dr. Jhandir calmed, his gratitude at being given a space on the ship, however small, exponentially diminished and he was soon dreadful company. Andrew’s own airsickness, heightened by being stuck in the small dark space, asserted itself almost as loudly as the doctor. Luckily, they both managed to fall sleep in fairly short order, but in the morning, the same problems—a small, uncomfortable space with nothing to do and the terrible, inexorable swaying of the ship—reasserted themselves.

While Dr. Jhandir might not be able to leave the disguised hold, Andrew did not face as strict of requirements, and he slipped out some time early in the morning, ostensibly to get them some food, as he was certain Captain French, the only other person on the ship who knew about Dr. Jhandir’s presence, would not be providing any personally to her secret passenger. Really, he just needed a break and some air, hoping the breeze would calm his stomach enough to keep breakfast down.

A few of the crewmen he passed gave him odd or surprised looks, but overall his presence was fairly unremarkable. While they were all Rebellion sympathizers, only a few were involved in more than their work on the ship. It was unlikely that they’d heard too much of what had happened, given how swiftly they’d left. Enough of them knew Andrew and the captain had been seeing each other that even unannounced, it wasn’t unbelievable that he might join them, though his unhappy expression and slightly green tint also explained why he hadn’t joined them before.

He didn’t see the captain as he wandered, though that wasn’t a surprise, as he knew she always led takeoffs and landings, especially ones done at night—she’d told him about enough of them that he couldn’t forget that. He managed to find some food, taking some extra bread and fruit for the Doc and slipping it in his pocket. He loitered on the way back, taking his time and taking in the air. He was in no hurry to return to the doctor, who had woken up just as pissy as he’d gone to sleep, or the cramped, dark, swaying space.

He delayed as long as he could, but eventually he had to return to the hold. He was not surprised when he was greeted with an unhappy volley of complaints.

“Did you, somehow, get lost?” Dr. Jhandir asked, hypothetically. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible on a ship this size, but you have always managed to surprise me.”

“I know things have been rough,” Andrew replied, with what he was certain was infinite, saintly patience. “But complaining doesn’t make a ship fly faster.”

“It doesn’t make it fly slower,” Dr. Jhandir sneered back, but at the long look Andrew gave him he relented. “All right. I’m sorry. This is—very stressful.”

“Do you think I’m enjoying this?” Andrew asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Spending time with Cordelia?” Dr. Jhandir asked, acidly, though as soon as it was out of his mouth he knew it was the wrong thing to say. “No. No, I’m sorry, Andrew I really am. And I am very grateful for all of you help. I just don’t do well in confined spaces.”

“I’ve noticed,” Andrew said, unimpressed, before standing again, stooped so as not to hit his head. That really made his decision up for him. There was no need to add complaints to his suffering as well. “I need to stretch my legs. I’ll be back.”

***

Somehow, Dr. Jhandir made it to the last day of the journey without driving Andrew to jump off the ship, though there were a few close calls. Andrew had failed to talk to Captain French for more than a few minutes at a time, as every time they ran into each other on the deck, something urgent came up that needed her attention, or that she felt needed her attention more than Andrew. But finally, she joined him at the rail, settling in beside him with the air of someone who had more than enough time to talk, Manhattan-in-the-Air less than a day away.

Andrew had known this was coming, really that it had to happen before they landed, but he’d still been dreading it. Their conversation in London had been rushed and clipped—by necessity, of course, not cowardice, but it had left Captain French taking a lot on faith that Andrew knew he no longer deserved.

Cordelia finally spoke. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, softly, looking out over the clouds rather than at him. She waited a moment before clarifying. “I know why you wanted me to help him. But why are you going with him?” The real question was, of course, ‘why aren’t you staying with me?’ but she left that unsaid, sure he knew it was there even unspoken.

“He’s not…” _as bad as you think_ , Andrew nearly said, but that was certainly not true, and not the reason either. “It’s…complicated.”

Cordelia turned, giving Andrew a thoroughly unimpressed look. “I think I deserve better than that.”

“Course you do,” Andrew said, looking down. “That’s it really. You deserve better.  Much better than me.”

“Andrew,” Cordelia sighed. “Just because you have bad taste in friends doesn’t make you a bad person. Wanting to help someone who doesn’t really deserve it is almost noble. Not very smart, yes, but it just means you have a kind, slightly stupid heart.”

“I’m not—” Andrew cut himself off with a sigh, but there was no getting out of it, and he’d rather she knew the truth, if only so someone did. The lie had been weighing on him, even as it protected him. “I’m really not what you think.”

“All right,” Cordelia said, straightening up pragmatically. “Then what did you do? You did something to stick by a confessed murderer—regardless of whether he killed Bart on accident or not, he confessed to other crimes. Is he blackmailing you? Is that why you’re helping him?”

“No,” Andrew said, regretfully. That might have been easier. Easier for Captain French, surely. He just had to hope she didn’t turn the ship around. “It’s because he didn’t commit those murders he confessed to,” he said finally. “Not all of them.”

“How do you know that?” Cordelia asked, but it was a pointed question, not one of confusion. She was too bright for that. Andrew remained silent for a moment, turning to look at her, his expression one of apology and guilt.

Cordelia’s nostril’s flared, her jaw clenched. She looked away, took a breath and looked back, slapping him hard across the face. Andrew winced, his cheek stinging, but he didn’t move, and didn’t protest; surely he deserved even worse if she so chose to give it to him.

“What is wrong with you?” Cordelia demanded in a hushed, angry whisper. “Why on earth would you do such a thing? I know I’m not that poor a judge of character—did he make you do it?”

“He didn’t force me,” Andrew said, but there was enough of a confession there for Cordelia.

“But he asked you to. Of course he did. Of course,” Cordelia looked like she wanted to storm away, but there was only so much space on the ship. “But you did say yes. Andrew.” His name was a disappointed sigh. “He’s a snake. I don’t know why you can’t see it. He’s going to ruin you. But maybe that’s what you want.”

Cordelia waited, giving Andrew one last chance to say something to justify his actions, or Dr. Jhandir’s or beg her forgiveness and ask to return to London with her, but he remained silent. “Fine. I wash my hands of this. You can join him in the pit if that’s what you want.”

“Will you still take us to Manhattan?” Andrew asked, eyes on the deck. It was the wrong thing to say, but he needed to know.

Cordelia glared at him, and if he had looked up to see it, the look might have killed him. “I keep my promises,” she spat out, before turning and walking away.


	2. I Won't Let You Choke

Manhattan-in-the-air was a surprise. Captain French docked on the lower end, near ships overflowing with cargo—it was daylight, but that didn’t matter much. She had mostly legitimate business to take care of and it was only Andrew and Dr. Jhandir’s presence that was out of the ordinary. Andrew had stayed in the hold with the doctor for the remaining hours of the journey after his final conversation with Captain French, and his friend had finally managed to read the mood and leave things be, letting their final hours pass quietly in their various discomforts.

Once the process of unloading their actual cargo began, Captain French stepped away to knock on the concealed hold, and the two of them stepped out, both squinting in the light after the dimness of the confined space. Captain French didn’t spare Dr. Jhandir a glance, but spoke quietly to Andrew for a short moment before passing him something and abruptly directing them off her ship and out of her life.

The two men stumbled a bit as they returned to solid ground, not least because the ground of Manhattan seemed less solid than that of London. Andrew felt a bit green as he realized the slight sway he still felt was real, and not simply the product of muscle memory, though it was a significant improvement over the ship.

Andrew looked over his shoulder but Captain French had already disappeared, which was likely for the best. He looked at the coins and paper she’d pressed into his hand and it did not look like very much to start a new life on, but the fact she’d offered anything was more than he had hoped for.

Dr. Jhandir was shoved out of the way by someone rushing past, up to the ship, and Andrew tugged him to the side, out of the bustle. They took a moment simply to get their bearings, though there was only one way away from the docks, the city spreading out in front of them, looking tall and dense, the streets already crowded with people. They walked quietly, both trying to take in the new surrounding without looking too obviously out of place. They stopped to ask around for lodgings a few times—cheap ones, Andrew emphasized—and found themselves directed to the Sixth Ward and Five Points, which they were able to find after some confused wandering and which turned out to be the same place.

In typical American fashion, while the neighborhoods of Manhattan-in-the-Air were numbered to mirror those that had existed in Manhattan-below, neither had been numbered sensibly. To make matters worse, half the people they spoke to didn’t refer to them by number at all, preferring the more colorful euphemisms that were half the time inspired by a feature of Manhattan-below that hadn’t made the transition to the air, like Turtle Bay and the various Hills.

The distinctions between the neighborhoods they passed were very similar to the differences between the platforms, but the boundaries were far less well-defined in the compacted, heavily-populated city. The entire structure was technically a single platform, the whole thing much smaller in area than London-in-the-Air, though it had been created in sections joined by less rigid connections to allow for the necessary flexibility that kept the city’s structure standing.

Starting over was difficult. They had both done it, in different ways, though Andrew knew this kind of start from the bottom much better than the doctor did. The room they found to let, for more than Andrew was sure it was worth, was small, windowless, and certainly comfortable for one person at most, but it was better than nothing at all. Luckily, wherever a person might be, there was rarely a shortage of jobs for men willing and able to do something exhausting and dirty, and Manhattan was a booming city in the clouds. Within a day, Andrew had secured a spot on the docks, picking up almost as he had left off in London-in-the-Air, though with worse pay, new people to learn and, a few troubling looks at his accent and hair.

Because Dr. Jhandir refused to go out and scrounge, Andrew helpfully told a few of their neighbors that his friend was a doctor and would be happy to figure out what was wrong with them for anything they could spare. The close quarters of the tenements in the Sixth Ward meant there was likely no shortage of patients, though few of them looked like they’d be able to pay much at all.

With little choice in the matter, they both began to settle into their new situation, Andrew heading to the docks to get a regular pittance and Dr. Jhandir spending the time he could stand in their tiny, windowless space, occasionally seeing and diagnosing people who were desperate enough to knocked on their door and trust the word of an undocumented stranger, or taking the time to walk around the city—carefully—to begin to learn it properly.

 

***

 

“I have never been so insulted in my life,” Dr. Jhandir stormed as soon as Andrew came in the door. He did look angrier than Andrew had seen him before, which was impressive though not what Andrew had hoped to return to.

“What’s happened?” Andrew asked, peripheral guilt hanging on his shoulder. He couldn’t think of anything specific he’d done, other than tell several people he met where to find the Doc to ask him questions, but that didn’t immediately translate to offense and it had been several days since he’d begun to do that.

“Do you know what they’re calling me?” Dr. Jhandir asked, without really answering the question, or explaining who ‘they’ might be.

Andrew had to admit, he did not.

“The _Brit_ ,” Dr. Jhandir ground out. “The Brit!”

Andrew wisely managed not to point out that he did sound, quite distinctly, like a person who came from the British Isles. Dr. Jhandir did not take his silence as reassuring.

“Why does everyone in this entire city seem to know that I’m a doctor?” Dr. Jhandir asked, and Andrew knew he hadn’t really changed topics—he could feel the blame trying to sneak up on him from the other side.

“Because we need jobs,” Andrew pointed out, reasonably. “And you know that job. I figured you could at least tell people what was wrong with them without having a lot of equipment, and that would be worth something. Then you could actually get yourself equipment and do real doctoring again. Unless you want to change careers to go with your new life.”

Dr. Jhandir sighed, deflating, and Andrew relaxed. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Of course you are. It’s just…immensely frustrating. ‘Doctor’ is not a hard word to say.”

“Neither is ‘Andrew,’” Andrew pointed out. “Or ‘Hey you, big man with the red hair,’ but you know how people are. Do you want to sit around and complain or do you want to see what we can afford to eat tomorrow?”

“We’ll eat well enough,” Dr. Jhandir said, sitting in the room’s only chair. “Most of the people who came by today paid me in food. But several people living in this building have typhus—I _will_ be checking you for lice.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “And you’re immune to lice.”

“No, I am not, so obviously you will have to check me,” Dr. Jhandir said in a tone that brooked no argument, ignoring Andrew’s expression. “And we’re moving the moment we can afford it.”

“Right,” Andrew said. “Once we can afford it. Might be a while.”

“Not that long,” Dr. Jhandir said, darkly. “I did not survive Heaton just to die of cholera.”

“You’re the doctor,” Andrew said. “Keep us safe from it then.”

Dr. Jhandir gave him a very flat look. “In my professional opinion, as a doctor, we need to move. If we’re living in squalor—”

“We aren’t living in squalor,” Andrew said.

“If we’re living in a cesspit,” Dr. Jhandir amended, hardly breaking stride. “If we’re living in an unhygienic hellhole, we will be struck down by one of any number of diseases that can be prevented by _not_ living here.”

“We’ll move when we have the money,” Andrew said with a sigh.

“We’ll get the money,” Dr. Jhandir said, and it was just slightly more promise than threat.


	3. On the Noose Around Your Neck

As the next day began to turn to night, Dr. Jhandir slipped out of their room, his kitchen knife tucked into his belt and hidden beneath the rough, and now rather worse-for-wear waistcoat. He had no specific plan in mind, though several ideas presented themselves as very appealing. He wished he had his supplies, but more he wished he knew the city better; where he might go to try some of his ideas out and where he might safely run to afterwards without getting lost in the press of buildings. As terrible as their own neighborhood was, it wasn’t smart to soil your own nest, however filthy that nest might already be.

Dr. Jhandir would never have admitted it to anyone, but he was slightly nervous. He had never done this intentionally with just a knife, no safety net in paralytics or ether or anything else. Still, he knew in general the kind of place he was looking for, and he prowled through the neighborhood, searching for the right spot. The buildings seemed to press closer together than London’s, but there was more cover, and in the end, it all balanced out.

It took some time, but the city provided. Perhaps two miles away from the rented room, Dr. Jhandir finally found a disreputable looking pub with the kind of set-up he wanted—an alley without windows, plenty of cover and shadows. All he had to do was wait and seize and opportunity.

Time passed, and plenty of people walked by the alley, but Dr. Jhandir remained in hidden in the unlit space. Finally, before he could get too stiff from the chill, a heavily inebriated man stumbled out the pub and staggered into the alley to be noisily sick. He was more than distracted enough, and Dr. Jhandir easily slipped behind him, pressing his knife to the man’s side.

The man staggered and tried to turn around before Dr. Jhandir grabbed his shoulder, shoving him back to face away from him. “Don’t…turn around,” he hissed, immediately frustrated. “Just give me your money.”

The man mumbled something before retching again and doubling over. Dr. Jhandir gave in and gave up, deciding to do this the easy way instead, stabbing the man in the side, through the ribs, puncturing his lung. The man gurgled, and tried to gasp, but Dr. Jhandir pulled the knife free, stabbing him again in the side, before shoving him around and stabbing him in the chest, through the heart. The man slid down the wall, letting out a final sputtering breath and going lax.

Dr. Jhandir quickly searched through the man’s pockets, coming up with a few coins, but not much else. He swallowed an angry growl and searched again, but there wasn’t anything more to be had. The doctor gritted his teeth and cursed, closing his eyes and taking a few breaths before he pulled his knife back out.

He carved out his frustration into his victim’s chest, the tension in his own snapping and releasing with each slice. It was messy and without finesse, really not his finest work. But when he finished, he was flooded with a calm that lasted even as he made his way carefully and quietly back through the alleyways toward their home. It was too late to try again, and he would not risk being caught by being any more reckless.

Dr. Jhandir returned back to the room late, well after dark, but it seemed he had somehow still beaten Andrew back. That was a bit concerning, but before he could do more than clean his knife off, the door opened again, revealing Andrew, also not in the best of states. The two men stared at each other for a moment, each obviously sporting more blood than they had earlier—Dr. Jhandir’s shirt cuffs and waistcoat stained with red, Andrew’s lip split, an abrasion on his cheek near his eye.

“What did you do?” Andrew asked, at the same moment Dr. Jhandir inquired, “What happened to you?”

Andrew glared, which Dr. Jhandir thought was dreadfully unfair. “You ought to go first,” Andrew insisted.

 “I just went out to find some money.”

“Inside a slaughterhouse?” Andrew challenged.

“No, obviously not,” Dr. Jhandir said, sighing. “Don’t patronize me. I was very careful.”

“Right,” Andrew said, raising an eyebrow.

“I liberated some funds,” Dr. Jhandir said, finally, trying to gloss over the issue. “There might be another body in the street, but I honestly don’t think anyone is going to notice.”

“Is there a chance it was at least a bad person?” Andrew asked hopefully.

The cut on his lip was very distracting, but Dr. Jhandir gave the question due consideration. “He certainly wasn’t a _smart_ person,” he tried.

Andrew groaned, sinking down to their bed and covering his face. “Why couldn’t you have just waited a little longer?”

“I didn’t know you were going out to do…whatever this is,” Dr. Jhandir said reasonably. “You’re lucky you shouldn’t need stitches. Even if I had the supplies, I don’t think it would be possible to sterilize a needle here. But you should let me clean them.” He wrapped his hand around Andrew’s wrist to tug his hand away from his face to scrutinize the cuts and scrapes. “What _did_ you do?”

“People pay for entertainment,” Andrew said, trying to turn away from Dr. Jhandir, though the doctor just grabbed his chin to hold him in place, apparently still concerned about the cut. “There’s always someone finds fighting entertaining.”

Dr. Jhandir hummed, finally releasing him to grab some clean clothes which he had invested some of their hard-earned money on, and some water to clean Andrew up. Andrew tried to brush him off, but Dr. Jhandir persisted. “Did you win?”

“Course I won,” Andrew said, scoffing. He finally managed to push Dr. Jhandir away and get him to stop fussing for long enough to pull a small wad of paper out of his pocket. “And I got us some money. Without killing anyone.”

“Yes, just by injuring them,” Dr. Jhandir said, though Andrew had managed to earn far more than he’d acquired that night. He reached for the money, but Andrew pulled it away with a scowl. “I’m not criticizing you,” the doctor protested.

“Next time, why don’t you come along and earn some money yourself,” Andrew said. Dr. Jhandir raised his eyebrow, but Andrew continued. “Not by fighting—you’d embarrass yourself. But I got tips for a nicer place; this one was a racket. Sometimes those places like to have someone nearby to patch people up. Nicer place has attracts fancier people and they don’t feel guilty at all if there’s a doctor around. You make better money at those places too. And if we’re both making better money—”

“Yes, I know how sums work,” Dr. Jhandir said.

“Doc,” Andrew said, sighing. “Please. I don’t want you killing people for no reason.”

“There was a reason,” Dr. Jhandir protested. “A perfectly valid reason.”

“I don’t want you murdering and robbing people who’re just as poor as us,” Andrew amended, glaring. “They don’t deserve it. Leave them alone.”

“Fine,” Dr. Jhandir said.

“I mean it,” Andrew said firmly.

“I understand,” Dr. Jhandir said, holding up his hands. “I promise you, I won’t. And if you want, I will attend your next brawl.”

“That’s not—” Andrew said, before sighing. “Fine. Good. Maybe you’ll even enjoy yourself.”


	4. I'll Find Strength in Pain

Andrew took a few days to heal so his extracurricular money-making wouldn’t negatively affect his regular work on the docks. As nice as it was to receive the larger lump sums fighting provided, he wouldn’t put all his eggs in such a fickle basket. The bruises earned him a few glances, but they were recognition rather than questions, and he didn’t mind.

He went alone the first time he visited the new fighting ring; there wasn’t any need to involve the doctor if there wasn’t anything for him to do. It did look cleaner, and was obviously better run. Though they didn’t have anyone regularly patching people up at the moment, after his fight he found the man in charge and brought up the suggestion, which was received positively enough. Even if they didn’t give the Doc much, Andrew figured it would at least keep him out of trouble for the night.

While Andrew scoped out new opportunities, Dr. Jhandir had done as he’d been asked, mostly staying in to deal with whoever came to their door. At Andrew’s suggestion, he’d spent some of the winnings on basic medical supplies—surgical needles and suture thread, gauze and rubbing alcohol—so he was able to do more and collect more, and was prepared when Andrew asked him along to the next fight.

It wasn’t far—nothing seemed to be far in Manhattan, though there were miles of rich houses and clean streets they hadn’t yet seen—but it was a little ways out of their neighborhood into somewhere a touch nicer, where solidly middle-class folks wouldn’t be too scared to attend. Dr. Jhandir let Andrew direct him, introducing him to the man who ran the fights, who laughed when Dr. Jhandir introduced himself. It wasn’t the most auspicious of beginnings, but he had lived in their hell room for several weeks now and was willing to put up with more than before if it meant they’d have the money to move sooner.

Dr. Jhandir was directed off to the side of the ring, out of the way near a little table and chair that would serve as his “office” if anyone got too bloodied. The room was already well filled and the babbling noise of the crowd only got louder as the first fighters were called to the ring.

It seemed this operation liked to play through newcomers first, saving favorites for later when the crowds were bigger, drunker, and more willing to open their pocketbooks and bet. Dr. Jhandir paid only cursory attention to what was going on in the ring, scanning the crowd instead to judge who was attending such a thing, and to look for any potential threats—it had been a long time now since he’d been in such a public and crowded space and he was grateful he was stationed near the wall and not somewhere in the press of the public.

Of the first few fights, only one got violent enough to require any of his time. New fighters were often mismatched in skill or confidence, and one had ended after only a few blows had been exchanged, leaving the crowd dissatisfied but the fighters only bruised.

Soon enough, Andrew was called into the ring. Dr. Jhandir had seen him fight before; at least, he had been present in the same space as Andrew fighting before, but he’d been distracted by his own situation and hadn’t spared the attention necessary to watch him. That was, he thought now, an immense shame.

He had known Andrew fought, but the idea of these events had previously seemed somewhat distasteful to him. It wasn’t the injuries or the crowd’s delight in others’ pain—that he certainly understood well enough—but the rough physicality of it, what he’d thought must be a lack of control, just two men punching each other, scrapping like animals, which the first few fights had seemed to confirm.

Andrew’s fight was very different from what he had imagined.

Andrew was powerful, his movements smart and controlled, and Dr. Jhandir found he was glad he had no patients to distract him from this fight. He moved with purpose and the crowd appreciated the difference between this and the first few fights as much as the doctor did. Andrew wasn’t always fast enough—the doctor sucked in a sharp breath as Andrew took a fist to the jaw, and let it out as he spat out a mouthful of blood—but he was obviously and clearly skilled, practiced.

Andrew threw a particularly vicious right hook at the other man—Flynn or some nonsense, the doctor hadn’t been paying attention—and Dr. Jhandir was very nearly swept up in the cheer the crowd let out. Andrew certainly was, pressing his advantage with body blows that left the man wheezing, struggling to catch his breath.

That could have been it, but Flynn was better matched than it appeared. He ducked Andrew’s next swing, catching him open and off-guard. Flynn pushed him into the defensive, aiming a flurry of blows at his head, one catching well and managing to split his temple. Head wounds bled badly, and the crowd appreciated blood, the noise it made swallowing up Dr. Jhandir’s quiet gasp.

Andrew shook his head, stepping back to buy himself enough time to wipe his arm across his face to keep the blood from getting in his eyes. Flynn feigned right, thinking Andrew would be distracted but he didn’t fall for it, blocking left and following by smashing Flynn’s chin with a brutal uppercut. Flynn bit through his lip, and staggered backward, stumbling and falling.

Flynn stayed down for a fast count of three, and the referee slipped in, raising Andrew’s arm and declaring him the winner. The crowd cheered, and Dr. Jhandir might have joined them, for a moment. Andrew—sweaty and bleeding—looked triumphant.

Andrew was ushered out of the ring and Flynn was assisted, a hand cupped over his mouth which was bleeding profusely. “Get yourself to Doc English over there,” the manager said, directing over the man Andrew had handily beaten. Dr. Jhandir caught the words and accepted the new sobriquet with bad grace and a scowl. “He’ll patch you up, then maybe you can redeem yourself, next time, eh?”

Flynn nodded and slumped into Dr. Jhandir’s chair, finally taking his hand away to reveal exactly what Andrew had done to him. Dr. Jhandir tried, but he couldn’t quite suppress a smile as he got to work. It definitely needed stitches.

Andrew waited until Dr. Jhandir was done with Flynn before he approached, bloody and grinning. “What did you think?”

“That was…” Dr. Jhandir cleared his throat, “impressive.”

Andrew laughed at the look on the doctor’s face, flying high on adrenaline and victory. “Now, why d’you look so surprised? I told you I won last time, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I’m not surprised, just…” Dr. Jhandir trailed off, looking just a bit too long at the blood on Andrew’s temple before he rallied. “I think you’ve split you lip in the exact same place.”

“People seem to want to punch my face here,” Andrew said, letting himself be nudged into the doctor’s chair to be fussed over. “Can’t think of why.” The doctor hummed, focused on the scrapes now, first on Andrew’s face, then checking his hands to make sure he hadn’t broken anything. Andrew watched him quietly, and when it seemed he’d finished and there wasn’t anything very wrong, asked, “You enjoying yourself?”

Dr. Jhandir looked up, and read the real question on Andrew’s face. “More than I expected,” he admitted.

“Going to keep coming along then?” Andrew asked, trying not to sound too relieved.

“If you want me to,” Dr. Jhandir said. “I’d be happy to oblige.”


	5. I WIll Change My Ways

The two men settled into something like a routine, working for the little they could get during the day, and supplementing both their income and their extralegal needs a few nights a week, if Andrew was recovered. Dr. Jhandir insisted they move the very moment they had the ability to do so, regardless of how small an improvement that might be, so it was only a few months later that they changed their home address, only two blocks away and still horribly cramped, but cleaner and with two rooms, which Andrew would admit if pressed improved the time spent there a great deal.

Both Dr. Jhandir and Andrew quickly earned reputations at the fighting ring, both of which could be described as “brutally efficient,” which was much more of a compliment to Andrew’s fighting style than Dr. Jhandir’s first aid. Other regulars at the fights learned quite quickly that it was better to wait however long it took than ask to be patched up while Andrew was fighting—you wouldn’t be refused, but it wasn’t a way to celebrate a win and certainly not a way to mentally recover from a loss.

That night, Andrew was getting ready to fight in the next round and the doctor’s “office” was empty so Dr. Jhandir took a moment to himself to grab some slightly fresher air and a smoke while he could. He noticed two men hanging around near the corner of the establishment, but after months of none of his troubles showing back up, he’d gotten a bit complacent. He realized he’d made a mistake when he was suddenly blindsided and blindfolded, dragged away from the entrance of the bar above the ring and down the alley, out of sight from anyone passing by.

“Don’t you make a noise now, y’hear?” a voice said by Dr. Jhandir’s ear, as he felt the prick of a knife at his side.

“You sure this is the right guy?” a second voice asked uncertainly.

“This is all dreadfully unnecessary, gentlemen, I assure you,” Dr. Jhandir said, his tone fluctuating wildly between nervous and irritated.

“Yeah, it’s gotta be,” the second replied. “He sounds like a ‘Doc English,’ don’t he?”

Dr. Jhandir sighed bad-naturedly, trying to figure out what he might have done. It seemed unlikely these men were connected to anything in London-in-the-Air, given that they didn’t seem to really know who he actually was. Yet he felt he’d done little to draw attention to himself here, unless these goons were employed by a fighter dissatisfied with his care, or perhaps with Andrew’s high win rate at the ring. He was marched several blocks with a knife to his side, and he was forced to wonder if this was simply a common sight in this part of Manhattan or if they were taking alleyways and backstreets, and there was no one to see his plight at all.

“In here,” the first man directed, taking his elbow and tugging him along. He stumbled on the raised threshold, though he didn’t fall, in part thanks to the tight hold the man had on him.

“Could someone please tell me what this is about?” Dr. Jhandir asked, though as he did, the very recognizable smell of blood and sounds of distress assaulted his senses and the blindfold was finally removed.

The large open space before him had to be part of a warehouse, or formerly part of one, and he realized they must have headed closer to the docks.  On the floor or leaning against remaining crates were perhaps ten men, in various states of injury, some obviously quite severe. One of the men, graced with an impressive beard and stern demeanor, limped over to him and the two thugs stepped back respectfully.

“You’re Doc English?” the new man asked gruffly.

“Unfortunately, that appears to be the case,” Dr. Jhandir admitted reluctantly.

“I’m John Morrissey, you heard of me?” Morrissey asked, the question an obvious challenge, though Dr. Jhandir was in the dark about what it meant.

“I’m afraid I have not,” Dr. Jhandir said. “Should I have?”

Morrissey laughed, though it had little humor in it. “Yeah. But that’s all right, because you’re going to do us a favor.” Dr. Jhandir glanced behind him at the wounded men, and thought he had an idea what that favor might be. “I run the Black Birds,” Morrissey continued, “And I don’t intend to lose any of my men tonight, especially not to some damned nativists.  So you’re going to make sure I don’t.”

Dr. Jhandir nodded, and one of the thugs that had brought him handed over his medical supply bag, which they had so helpfully taken along. “May I inquire why I was chosen for this dubious honor?” he asked even as he began to make a mental guess as to the order the men needed to be treated to survive.

“Seemed like you might be sympathetic to our cause,” Morrissey said. “Being affiliated with that O’Rourke.”

Dr. Jhandir glanced around again and realized that all of the men did appear to be rather Irish. “Possibly,” he allowed.

“Good enough,” Morrissey said. “But enough jabbering—two of my men are bleeding bad, see to them first. If they all make it through the night, we’ve got a nice reward for you.”

“And if they don’t?” Dr. Jhandir asked.

“Make sure they do,” Morrissey suggested.

Dr. Jhandir sighed, but it seemed like he had little choice in the matter either way, and he did still have his professional pride, even if circumstances had meant he lacked the equipment to reach his normal high standards. “I may need some assistance, depending on the injuries,” he said, taking his bag and stepping over to the injured men to assess who needed help most desperately. Morrissey waved the two men who had brought Dr. Jhandir there over and they obeyed, though they looked much less confident about this than they had earlier.

It took a long time to get everyone sorted out—two of the men were in critical condition, one bleeding heavily externally and one bleeding internally, each a challenge with his limited supplies, but Dr. Jhandir was both determined and resourceful and managed to ensure they’d at least live through the night before he turned his attention to the others. There were some non-lethal bullet wounds to clean and close, several broken bones to set, and many necessary stitches, including a wound on Morrissey’s leg, a nasty cut that had nearly sliced the ligament at the back of his knee and would leave him limping for a while, though not forever, Dr. Jhandir assured him.

Overall, it was work well done, the doctor thought, and Morrissey seemed to agree. By the time Dr. Jhandir was released and escorted back to his own neighborhood, the sun was rising and he was exhausted, but he’d been given a sizable parting gift and had agreed that if there happened to be a next time, blindfolds and knives wouldn’t be necessary to secure his services.

Of course, returning home at dawn with bloodstained clothes after disappearing from the ring did not sit especially well with Andrew.

“I thought things were going fine at the fights,” Andrew said, after the momentary relief at seeing Dr. Jhandir unharmed passed into frustrated irritation.

Dr. Jhandir held up a hand, which was also a bit red so perhaps not the most calming of gestures. “Before you get upset, I promise you, no one died.”

“It looks like someone died,” Andrew grumbled, crossing his arms, “So that’s not so reassuring.”

“My services were required elsewhere tonight,” Dr. Jhandir said, and before Andrew could open his mouth, added, “My services _as a doctor_. Have you heard of a group called the Black Birds?”

Andrew looked surprised and then sighed, looking up at the ceiling for a moment as though it or God might explain why his life had turned out this way. “Yes, I heard about them. Please don’t tell me—”

“They pay very well,” Dr. Jhandir said.

“This is dangerous,” Andrew sighed. “You know they’re a gang, yeah? Not nice organized thing like our Rebellion; just a gang.”

“I thought we couldn’t be picky,” Dr. Jhandir said. “And I didn’t have much choice in the matter. This time.”

“Just be careful,” Andrew said.

“I usually am,” Dr. Jhandir said, neglecting to mention that he’d failed to avoid being kidnapped. “But how did your fight go tonight? I’m afraid I missed it.”

“I know,” Andrew mumbled, embarrassed, rubbing the back of his head. Dr. Jhandir realized he looked a bit more mashed in than usual. “I lost. I got…distracted. Didn’t know where you’d gone.”

Dr. Jhandir surprised even himself by smiling. “That’s all right,” he said. “Sit down, let me see the damage.” Andrew submitted to his ministrations willingly enough, though his winced as Dr. Jhandir gently prodded his side. “I think you’ve bruised your ribs.”

“You’re telling me,” Andrew said, leaning away from the doctor’s questing fingers with another wince. “If you know you don’t have to keep touching them.”

“We have to wrap them,” Dr. Jhandir said. “Can you take off of work at the docks for a little while?”

“I hate to miss steady work,” Andrew said uncomfortably.

“I hate to see you injure yourself further,” Dr. Jhandir said. “Don’t worry. I can take care of things for a while.”


	6. I'll Know My Name When it's Called Again

Though they had agreed to share and share alike, it was difficult for Dr. Jhandir not to think of his newly earned funds as _his_ money. For the moment Andrew was taking his convalescence terribly well, but the doctor thought he still might deserve some cheering up. After all, Andrew had been the one to open up most of the real opportunities for them in Manhattan so far.

This line of thinking found the doctor making excuses to go out to “shop for necessities” while Andrew stayed home to rest, an excuse Andrew accepted with a bemused expression. There were always things they needed, so it wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility, but as Dr. Jhandir rarely volunteered to do this chore without prompting, it was just a bit suspicious, especially when it happened more than once.

Dr. Jhandir took his time shopping—he’d seen some interesting stores on his various careful explorations of the city, though most of them he knew they still couldn’t afford. But just because they couldn’t have truly expensive things didn’t mean they couldn’t have nice, well-made ones, and the doctor knew what he was about in this particular area. He placed some orders on one early secret trip, and finally returned with his prizes two weeks later, just as Andrew was beginning to get truly restless remaining at home and out of work.

“What’s all this?” Andrew asked, confused, when Dr. Jhandir returned with boxes in addition to the bags of food, fumbling a bit with the load. “What did you do now?”

“They’re for you,” Dr. Jhandir said, encouragingly.

“But why?” Andrew asked, still making no move to take or open the boxes.

“Because you deserve something nice,” Dr. Jhandir said, pushing them toward Andrew until he was forced to take them or make everything extremely awkward and risk a grocery spill. “Open them.”

“You know, we probably don’t need this,” Andrew said, setting the boxes down and opening the larger with just a hint of trepidation.  It turned out to be clothes—a quite nice set, shirt, trousers, waistcoat, necktie and all—which was somehow both not what Andrew had expected and exactly what he should have. “You, know, I do have clothes.”

“Not nice ones,” Dr. Jhandir said. “But now you do. And they should fit better than your other ones too. I had them tailored for you.”

“ _How_?” Andrew asked, looking up. “I’ve barely left this room and I think I’d remember something like going to a tailor.”

Dr. Jhandir waved the words away. “We’ve lived together for months, of course I know your measurements, or near enough.”

Andrew found himself feeling touched, and also very glad they now both had their own rooms. It was just like the doctor to manage to hit something surprisingly intimate and thoughtlessly uncomfortable at the same time. Dr. Jhandir’s expression was so encouraging that Andrew couldn’t help himself. “They’re…very nice.”

“Of course they are,” Dr. Jhandir said, smiling. “Now open the other one.”

It was a much smaller box, and Andrew couldn’t begin to guess what it was, though if it was cufflinks and a cravat pin, he wasn’t going to pretend to be pleased with it. Again, the Doc managed to surprise him, and this time his reaction was entirely genuine. “Oh, Doc,” he said softly, taking out the shiny new brass knuckles. He turned them over in his hands a few times before slipping them on—they fit like they were made for him, and perhaps they had been.

“Do you like them?” Dr. Jhandir asked.

“They’re perfect,” Andrew said, making a fist, enjoying the weight of the things. “Thank you.”

Dr. Jhandir practically beamed. “Now, this does not mean that you are approved for work again yet,” he said. “But I thought, since you had to leave so many things behind…”

“They’re perfect,” Andrew said again, stepping over to the doctor and pulling him into a brief hug, patting his back twice, letting go as soon as it felt awkward, which was nearly immediate. “But, uh, we do still have enough left for rent, yeah?”

Dr. Jhandir sighed, thinking, really, his gifts could be better appreciated. “Of course we do. I don’t know why you doubt me so often.”

Andrew decided not to answer that, which was his present in return to the doctor.

 

***

 

Andrew returned to work at the docks three weeks after his injury, still a bit sore, but unwilling to put up with sitting around any longer. He waited a week or so more before he returned to the boxing ring, at the doctor’s insistence, but he was feeling too restless to wait longer than that, itching to fight again, especially after receiving the brass knuckles as a present. They wouldn’t be allowed in the ring, but simply having them served as a reminder of the activity. He thought he might consider them a good luck charm—it seemed like a better idea than thinking of the Doc that way.

Not everyone appreciated the how well Andrew had been doing in the ring before his injury, and a few of the regulars had been pleased with his extended vacation. Egos were bruised as easily as anything else and there had been plenty of bruises to go around over the past few months. When he returned, a few of the regulars began to grumble, a few more with threats much less idle than the others.

Rumors abounded in a city like Manhattan-in-the-Air, and when some of the heavy betters heard that Doc English was now affiliated with the Black Birds, it was very easy to make some conclusive leaps about a certain Irish fighter who had been doing so well lately and losing some of them a lot of money. Of course, there were no rules against gang affiliation—there would be far fewer fights to watch if that were the case—but which gang was an important question to answer. Some members of the East Siders, for instance, enjoyed spending their time and money watching fights they didn’t have to engage in, but enough money had been lost to justify getting involved, out of the ring.

Being a simple unofficial dispute, only three men tailed Andrew and Dr. Jhandir as they left the ring after another successful night. Leo Gorcey lead the trio, who managed to stay out of sight for the blocks necessary to take them to the poorly lit stretch connecting two pieces of the platform. As Andrew and Dr. Jhandir stepped into the murky dark, Gorcey whistled, and the two men with him moved, darting forward to flank their targets as Gorcey barreled down at them, flicking open a switchblade as he ran. He targeted the Irishman, thinking the doctor easier prey that could be handled well enough by Davey’s bat.

Andrew had turned as soon as he’d heard the whistle, and slipped on the comforting weight of his brass knuckles when he saw the movement. He managed to dodge Gorcey’s first strike, landing his own blow on the man’s jaw before he was jumped from behind by another man, an arm around his throat.

Dr. Jhandir very nearly fell under Davey’s first attack, too slow to dodge completely, taking the blow from the bat on his left shoulder instead of his head. Pain flared as he heard an unfortunate crack, and he stifled a cry, fumbling with his medical bag one-handed, and trying to avoid Davey at the same time, an overall unsuccessful attempt that left him vulnerable to the swing directed at his knee, which took him down.

Andrew heard Dr. Jhandir over the sound of his own heart, and managed to kick Gorcey back before he could do any damage with his knife. He elbowed the man behind him once, twice, hard in the ribs, and heard a satisfying wheeze as the man let go to stumble back. Two on one was hardly fair, but Andrew had been in worse odds and come out fine enough. He turned as soon as the third man’s arm was off him, sinking a sickening blow into his face, a wet crunch as the man’s nose broke and he went down.

Gorcey tackled him, furious now that an East Sider had fallen, but Andrew caught his wrist before he could stick his knife anywhere useful, twisting it hard enough to force him to drop it before he yanked Gorcey forward by the same arm, bringing a knee up, catching him in the chest, knocking the air out of him. As Gorcey struggled to catch a breath, Andrew drew back and struck him hard with the brass knuckles on the back of the head, sending the man to the ground, where he stayed, blood leaking from blow that fractured his skull.

Andrew looked over at the man whose nose he’d broken but he remained where he was—afraid, unconscious, or dead, Andrew didn’t quite care. Dr. Jhandir was still getting the worst of it from Davey, curled around himself on the ground and trying to protect his most vulnerable parts from the bat. That did, however, mean that Davey was not looking out for Andrew, which was his fast undoing. A sucker punch later and the bat was out of his hands, on the ground, and Andrew’s hands were around his neck. Davey was stronger than little Lord Mountford, but Andrew was angrier and more determined and Davey’s windpipe crushed the same as any other man’s.

A moment later, Davey collapsed, legs giving out as his brain did, starved of oxygen, and Andrew let him fall, out of the way. He crouched by Dr. Jhandir’s side—in the dark it was difficult to assess the damage. “Doc?” Andrew asked, reaching for Dr. Jhandir’s shoulder, which earned him a painful groan in response. “Are you all right?”

“I think,” Dr. Jhandir said weakly, wincing as he turned to face Andrew, “It’s my turn to stay home.”


	7. Live My Life as it's Meant to Be

Andrew helped the Doc back to their apartment after the fight. He could walk by himself, which was a good sign, and he complained the entire way, which was also likely a good sign, though when they got back into better lighting on the streets, he looked dreadful. The biggest trouble proved to be his arm, or his shoulder rather, and Dr. Jhandir forced Andrew to help him set it—it was difficult to splint your own bones yourself.

Andrew figured that Dr. Jhandir would be in a bad mood while he recovered, but the doctor mostly stayed in his room as the days went by. Andrew kept up his work at the docks, and after the worst of the bruises began to yellow out, the doctor began to see hopeful patients again for minor things, but both of their extralegal lives were again on hold.

A month into recovery and the doctor was still wearing a sling, but he had reached the end of his patience. “I’d like us to go out,” Dr. Jhandir said, leaning in the doorway between their rooms. He’d phrased it carefully, and Andrew noticed, turning to take in his neutrally crafted expression.

“To do what?” Andrew asked, though by now he suspected he knew the answer.

“To relieve some frustration,” Dr. Jhandir said.

Andrew let out a slow breath. “By doing what?” he pressed. He wouldn’t agree before he knew what he was agreeing to, regardless of his suspicions. He wondered if the doctor’s hesitation to say it plainly came from not wanting to scare him off or because he didn’t want to admit aloud what he wanted to do. “Come on now, spit it out. Shy bairns get nowt.”

Dr. Jhandir looked away for a moment, possibly trying out various phrases in his head. “I would like,” he said slowly, working his way through it, “For us to go out. And kill someone. Together.”

“Who?” Andrew asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Dr. Jhandir said, rallying a little. “I’m sure the city will provide possibilities. No one you would object to.”

“If I said no, would you still go?” Andrew asked.

Dr. Jhandir sighed. “I hardly can, like this.” He gestured to his sling.

“And if I said ‘not that person,’ would you listen?” Andrew asked.

Dr. Jhandir met his gaze. “Yes. You can have the final say.”

Andrew let out another breath, but he’d already decided. “Then I suppose we’re going out. Though I don’t know how you think to do much like that, even with me there.”

“I just need you to…subdue them,” Dr. Jhandir said, turning to grab his jacket. As he did, Andrew could see he already had his knife tucked into his belt. Dr. Jhandir fumbled with the jacket for a moment before he turned back to Andrew with a sigh. “Could you…?”

“You know this means I’m not going to listen next time you tell me I need to rest for weeks after getting a bit bruised up,” Andrew said, helping Dr. Jhandir into his jacket, draping the left side over the sling.

“I’m a doctor,” Dr. Jhandir said. “I can make these kind of decisions.”

Andrew shook his head. “Course you can,” he said.

“I can,” Dr. Jhandir insisted. “You still have to listen to me.”

“Nah,” Andrew said, smiling and stifling a laugh at the doctor’s frustrated huff.

They headed out into the cool night air, the city transitioning from twilight to artificial light in slow, uneven progression. Dr. Jhandir strolled slowly but with clear direction, toward the somewhat nicer part of the city, where he thought there would be more targets Andrew was likely to approve.

They were too early for the night crowd, but Dr. Jhandir wasn’t looking for them. They tended to travel in packs, and the ones who were alone were likely to be vetoed by Andrew anyways. They walked a ways, skirting the edges of the pools of lamplight and watching people pass them, rejected for their purposes.

Finally, Dr. Jhandir stopped. “Him?” he asked, indicating a man across the street from them. He was indeterminately middle-aged, indeterminately middle-class, and vaguely familiar. Andrew thought perhaps he’d seen him at the ring; he would have fit in with the spectators there. And he was alone.

“Why him?” Andrew asked.

“Why not?” Dr. Jhandir countered. “Everyone has done something. And you know this isn’t about justice or fairness.”

“I’d like there to be a reason,” Andrew said.

Dr. Jhandir looked at him in the dark for a long moment before he nodded. “All right. Someone else then.” He started to continue their slow walk through the city when across the street they heard a dog bark. The man they’d spotted cursed and a moment later there was a yelp and a whine, followed by more curses. Dr. Jhandir turned to look at Andrew again, raising his eyebrows.

“He’ll do,” Andrew allowed.

They crossed the street, quietly, doing their best impression of stalking the man a few blocks until there was a convenient alleyway where it didn’t seem likely they would be interrupted. Andrew moved without needing direction, closing the distance between them and grabbing the man, shoving him into the alley.

“What—?” the man managed to get out before Andrew punched him solidly in the jaw, disorienting him. It was clear their target was not a fighter, lost in the face of sudden violence. Perversely, Andrew realized it was almost nice to fight someone so out of shape as he slammed his fist into the man’s gut, winding him—his body was softer on his fists than the muscle of his usual opponents.

Dr. Jhandir watched from the alley mouth, shrugging off his jacket and laying it somewhere reasonably clean before pulling out his knife and stalking closer, though he made sure not to get in Andrew’s way.

Their target tried to fight back, but it was a poor showing, and soon, too soon, Andrew had worn him down. He sidestepped the man, grabbing his arm and moving behind him, yanking his arm up behind his back and wrapping his free arm around his throat, holding him in place despite his feeble struggles.

It was the last moment to back away, and Andrew turned them around to face Dr. Jhandir. “You’re up, Doc,” he said, quietly. The man in his arms tried to speak, to plead, but it just came out as a gurgle, Andrew’s arm too tight around his throat.

Dr. Jhandir stepped forward and buried his knife in the man’s stomach. It went in almost too smoothly, and Andrew wondered if he’d sharpened it. He watched Dr. Jhandir’s face light up, a now familiar expression, as his friend pulled the knife out and stabbed the man again, and again, up the middle of his stomach, perforating him. The man died around the fifth wound, which took him in the sternum, and Andrew felt him go, wondering at that knowledge. “Doc,” he said, as it looked like Dr. Jhandir was gearing up for another go. “That’s it.”

Dr. Jhandir paused, meeting Andrew’s gaze, and for a second Andrew wondered if he was going to listen. But then Dr. Jhandir nodded, conscientiously wiping his knife on their victim’s shirt before putting it back in his belt. Andrew let the man’s body fall, banking on luck to keep them safe. Without knowing the right place to go to, it seemed more dangerous to try to take the body to the edge than to leave it where it was.

Dr. Jhandir stood, still a bit too close to him, shirtsleeve a bloody mess, watching his expression, obviously searching for something. Andrew remembered the first time he’d seen the Doc like this, though through his joy he thought he saw some hesitance.

 “Are you…” Dr. Jhandir finally tried to ask. “Was that…all right?”

“We might need some practice,” Andrew said. “Working together.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to find some time to do that,” Dr. Jhandir said. “But it wasn’t bad?”

“It wasn’t bad,” Andrew agreed, and found it was the truth. “I think it will work out.”

 

***

 

**Epilogue**

_London-in-the-Air, several months ago_

 

Percy Albright had seen the smoke and like any upstanding citizen had gone to gawk for a bit, a bystander and consumer of schadenfreude like the rest of them. Still, the owners of the flaming buildings seemed to be dead or gone, and there were no wailing mothers or angry young men fighting to get back inside to save some of their precious belongings, so he didn’t stay long, little of value or entertainment to be gained.

He slipped away, down the closest uncongested street and out of sight, making his way back home. He nearly didn’t see the man on the ground, dark and unmoving against the shadows. Albright nudged him with the toe of his boot, which elicited nothing. He glanced around, debating getting involved, but it couldn’t hurt to check, especially if it resulted in something valuable.

He crouched down, squinted, feeling for a pulse, taking in the burns and the blood. It was a long moment before the shock of recognition kicked in, at almost the same moment he found the weak, thready pulse. “God,” he breathed, going pale and cold. He quickly tugged off his scarf, doing his best to rig up a bandage once he found the source of the worst of the blood. “God,” he said again, something like a prayer as he heaved Dave Heaton’s unconscious body into his arms. “It’ll be alright. It’ll be fine. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

 


End file.
